by Adam Ingle
Leviticus and Mestoph gave Marcus and Stephanie awkward handshakes, as none of them really knew what the protocol was for saying goodbye to people who lied repeatedly and nearly got you killed, but without whom you wouldn’t have found happiness.
“One thing,” said Stephanie as she turned to look at God.
“Yes, my dear?” asked God.
“If all of it was coincidence or whatever you want to call it, what was up with that storm?”
“Let’s just say not everything was a ‘coincidence’ and leave it at that,” said God with a wink. He wiggled his fingers and a tiny version of the pentagram storm swirled above His outstretched palm. “Enjoy Tahiti,” said God as he patted Stephanie on the shoulder and then both she and Marcus disappeared.
God and Satan turned and walked toward St. Peter and Sir Regi. God put His hand on Sir Regi’s shoulder, and the former Scottie dog smiled even as he was wiping at his misted eyes. If he’d still had a tail, he was sure it would have been wagging.
“There’s a place waiting for you in Heaven if you want,” said God.
Sir Regi nodded excitedly, and then he disappeared.
“You, on the other hand,” said God. He looked straight at St. Peter and then pointed to Satan. St. Peter’s face fell.
“Nothing like that,” said Satan. “But we do have a job that we think might be especially suited for you,”
“Shit,” said St. Peter, and then he too disappeared.
God turned back toward Mestoph and Leviticus. “First thing in the morning, boys,” He said, and then Mestoph and Leviticus disappeared.
God and Satan walked off toward the chasm. God put his arm around Satan’s shoulder and gave him a friendly pat.
“And that is how you destroy a pantheon and get away with it,” said God.
“One down…” said Satan.
“End of the World, here we come.”
Chapter 21
The Beginning of the Beginning of the Middle of The End
St. Peter stood in the doorway of his new office. It was a shithole. Located in the old shipping office of a failed import/export company along the battery of the Savannah River, it had one wall of nothing but old, hazy windows that looked out over an alley that managed to be dark even in broad daylight. The floors were covered in dusty wood that creaked if you even thought of walking on it. Everything in it was left over from the 1950s, when the company had failed. The hat rack in the corner was made of green marbled metal and easily weighed fifty pounds. On one of its rungs hung a rumpled fedora that St. Peter had finally gotten to land by tossing it from the door. He sighed and then sat down at the old cherry wood desk. It was scratched to Hell, had water rings all over, and all its corners were rounded and splintering. The wood slat office chair squeaked as he leaned back in it and put his hands behind his head. He blew a puff of smoke around the large cigar he was smoking, then leaned forward and pulled a bottle of cheap scotch and a highball glass out of one of the drawers. They were the only things in the desk. He poured himself two fingers of scotch, threw it back, and then poured a full glass before putting the bottle away.
He was halfway through the glass of scotch when he heard a knock on the door. He jerked upright and tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. He had been expecting his first assignment, but he was disappointed and not a little pissed off when he saw not God or Satan but a scarred black man wearing a black leather trench coat and an olive skinned man with a hook nose and a long baby blue robe that covered all but the toes of his sandals.
“Mestoph and Leviticus, what a pleasant surprise,” said St. Peter, the sarcasm dripping off his words.
He motioned them to sit down in the two simple wooden chairs that sat opposite his desk. They obligingly took a seat and eyeballed the glass of scotch that sat on an otherwise barren desk.
“Don’t have any more glasses, but help yourself,” said St. Peter as he pulled the bottle back out of the drawer and slammed it down on the desk. Leviticus took the bottle, uncapped it, and took a generous swig. Mestoph took a smaller sip, made a brief grimace at the cheap and rough alcohol, and then lightly set the bottle back down on the table without taking any more.
“So, you’re a private detective now?” asked Leviticus.
“That’s what the sign says,” said St. Peter, pointing to the hazy windows behind him. Painted backwards on the window in big, bold letters was a sign that said “Simon Peter – Private Detective.” Smaller lettering below it said “Rock Solid Investigations.”
“A private dick,” said Mestoph.
“God’s dick,” said Leviticus, and they both burst into laughter.
St. Peter sighed. He glanced off to one side and composed himself before he looked back at them. The urge to pull out the gun mounted to the underside of the desk and shoot both of these assholes in the head was almost too much for him.
“I take it this isn’t a social call, so what do you two chucklenuts want?”
“Well, Mestoph and I, we’ve been talking and… Well, we think we might have a plan where the three of us could get everything we’ve ever wanted,” said Leviticus.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Have you ever heard of the Sons of Light and Dark?” asked Mestoph.
St. Peter thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, what about them?”
“Well, there’s a Prophecy,” said Leviticus.
“There’s always a fucking Prophecy,” sighed St. Peter.
Afterword
There are a lot of people to thank over the embarrassingly long development of this book. To list them all by name would take too long and I’d hate to leave anyone out. So a quick thank you to the friends and family who test read the many iterations of the book, pointed out inconsistencies, missed opportunities, and encouraged me along the way.
This isn’t the end of the road for Mestoph and Leviticus. They will be returning in The Sons of Light and Darkness in 2015. To keep up to date on future adventures of the unholy duo be sure to check out my site The Cortex.
About The Author
Adam Ingle is a basement-dwelling, graveyard-shift nerd by night and an aspiring peddler of exorcised creative demons by day. He and his chinchilla live in a tin can on the side of the interstate somewhere in South Carolina. This is his first novel.
Credits
Cover art was designed by the amazing Pale Horse Design.
Editing was done by the diligent Erin Long of Biblio/Tech.
